


i love you like a rabbit loves the fear

by briath



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Lack House'd, Multi, Spoilers for finale, intimacy issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briath/pseuds/briath
Summary: “Hey, Hella?” “Hm?” “I don't want you to leave.”Her brown eyes search Adaire's face, and for a second, she feels awfully wrong-footed, but Hella just sighs, a long, relieved sound, and says: “Good.”





	i love you like a rabbit loves the fear

**Author's Note:**

> i am not super happy with this, but please take it anyway
> 
> some things:  
> 1\. this is directly inspired by janine putting "Jackrabbit" by st. fermin on her adaire playlist. thanks janine for my life.  
> 3\. title is from heiko julien's "i am ready to die a violent death"  
> 4\. if you really love adelaide/hella in a positive sense, please be aware that this story treats their relationship as deeply discomfiting & upsetting

Within the sword, the sun stays in the sky for longer and longer until it seems impossible for it to disappear. Even when it finally does start to, slowly lowering behind the rolling hills, the reassurance of its presence stays. To Hadrian, who has been quiet throughout the evening, it looks as though it does not want to leave. 

His God is laughing at something Lem said, sitting slightly bent forward, his fork forgotten in his hand. Lem is smiling, too, throwing bashful glances towards Hella next to him, but it is Samothes who Hadrian's gaze clings to as he picks at the food on his plate. Sitting in his light feels overwhelmingly like wearing Samot's cloak again; he shifts in his seat, pulls at his sleeve. Ephrim's face is lit a deep orange in his mind, his voice whisper-soft and far-away. Safe. He had been up later than usual, that night. So had Ephrim. Hadrian had watched his face as he stared into the flames, emanating a calmness almost violent in its simplicity. Now, he thinks, if that is what fire is, he might not mind the heat so much. 

Adaire beside him looks like the concept of wine, warmth, and love is far from her mind. A glower is planted firmly on her face. Hadrian watches her for a few beats. She doesn't turn her head. Hadrian puts a hand on her arm, ready to pull back immediately if need be. But she just stares stonily up into his eyes, her own flickering with the candles. His returning stare is even, and—he hopes—shows none of the doubt he had felt in his actions. “I,” Adaire breathes, “can't stand her.” 

Adelaide Triste sits on the other side of the table between Hella and Samothes, eyes blue, dress bluer. Hella has moved her chair close to Lem and the corner of the table, and has her shoulders pulled in. She, too, is picking at her food, only occasionally giving Lem or Hadrian a distracted smile. Hadrian, privately, cannot help but agree with Adaire. Unconsciously, he straightens in his seat.

Adaire has bitten into the cracker that was in her hand and is now chewing it viciously, glaring across the table. He clears his throat. “If it bothers you so much, why don't you go?” 

Adaire's eyes are hard as she spikes a raisin with one of her throwing knives. “What? Yeah, no, I'm not leaving you guys with that woman. She should leave! And if she won't, I won't either.” 

Hadrian rubs a hand over the cloth of his shirt. He leans forward, curious. “What if you take Hella with you?” Silence. He continues. “I mean, we should, ah, stay here for some time, obviously, because—I have to be here, anyway, I'm sure of this—but there is no reason why you have to stay at this table near a woman you don't want to be near.” Adaire mutters something about not really wanting to be near anyone, but her eyes keep straying. “I mean, you can just ask Hella. I'm—you know, I'm sure Lem and I can handle the situation here.” He ignores the dark shadow around Lem in favour of putting an appropriate amount of conviction into his words. 

Adaire is still not looking at him. He only barely suppresses a sigh. Gently presses on: “You went to the Lack House, right? So you know. You must know. I-I've found I'm. Better off with knowing and, working on my lack. I would just be...carrying it with me everywhere anyway, you know?” He smiles, hopes the candlelight covers the rust on it. “So. You could..” Adaire's jaw works as he trails off. Then, she stands abruptly and wordlessly stalks off towards Hella.   
Hadrian does sigh, now, though he finds it hard to banish the smile from his face. How long it's been since he's had the strength or the care to do this for someone. But it is so easy now. 

Samothes' eyes catch his and hold them. 

Hadrian feels the air leave his lungs, and lift his body up, up, so that when his Lord winks and lifts a wineglass, he feels himself curl up into a smile, helpless, and raise his own.   
Hella, who is looking up at her with wide eyes, has a bit of her frizzy hair framing her face. The whole thing looks distinctly—vulnerable, and Adaire's nails dig deeper into the skin of her palm. She should never look that way. 

She had looked that way ever since they entered the bubble. Adaire had been looking around, trying to familiarize herself—it's only how used she is now to the Buoy's strange workings that takes away the jarring jump into this calm & happy world. And, well. A person gets used to all the jumping-in, is all she's saying. 

Speaking of, there's Hadrian, who has his back turned to her and is apparently having some sort of emotional and religious experience staring at a figure on a balcony. Yeah, great. She snorts, but still files away the slump of his shoulders as being lighter, somehow, a disarmament in his entire bearing. She shakes it off, and starts to look around her.

There is Hella. Standing a few metres away, still half-crouched on the earth, a pained frown on her face. Adaire's left hand, which she was using to slap the dust off her skirt, freezes mid-air. A tall, dark woman is standing behind Hella, and has one of her hands in Hella's hair. Hella's hand is on the woman's wrist, and her head is turned. She doesn't see Adaire. 

Adaire's right hand instinctively clenches the fabric of her skirt. Her eyes narrow. Screw church-boy and whatever moment he's having there, this is more important. In fact—and she takes a step towards the two women—screw absolutely fucking all of this. 

Her feet are heavy enough on the ground that Hella, always a fighter, snaps around and stills again at the sight of her. The other woman follows her gaze, and smiles a sharp, bright grin. She is, Adaire registers dimly, very beautiful. The information doesn't matter. Instead, assessing the woman the same way she assesses all targets, she narrows in on the tension in her shoulder, the unhappy crinkle of her lips.   
The woman, as through a layer of snow, is talking to Hella: “Why did you pull us in! You—ha. Do you even know what you just did? Do you have any idea of the plans you just ruined?” Hella, looking like she isn't looking at anything, shakes her head. Her mouth is a terse line on her face. 

“S—Hella. I can't protect you in here. Do you understand that?”

“Look,” says Adaire, taking another step forward. “Look. I don't know who you are or what you want or why—Hella brought you here with us, and frankly, I don't care, because Hella—look. I'm sure we can work something out. You don't need to protect Hella here. She's with us, and we're fine. I swear.”

The woman's hand in Hella's hair tightens for just a second. Adaire's breath goes quick. “Just, just let her go, and we'll be fine.” Hella's dark eyes are watching her. The woman smiles for real.

“My name is Adelaide Triste. Queen of Death.” 

In the brief moment before Adaire scoffs and Adelaide makes to step forward, a big hand reaches up to grab at her wrist. Hella pulls Adelaide's hand out of her hair, and it must hurt quite a bit, because Adaire sees the almost-concealed wince on Adelaide's face. “Stop.”

Hella has gotten up. Like this, she is taller than both of them, and her voice is steady, even. A shiver runs through Adaire, now that she can see Hella's face more clearly: she is really, truly, afraid of this woman. Queen of Death. Ugh. 

“Leave my friends alone.”

It explains a lot about her friendship with Hadrian, Adaire thinks distantly, watching as Hella's other hand drifts down towards her sword. 

“Oh?”

Amusement. Great. Adelaide, is full on grinning by now, looking between Hella and Adaire. “Is that it? My, my, sister, you're just full of surprises. Would you terribly mind introducing your...company?” 

Adaire lets out a long hiss.

Through the rush of blood in her ears, she can see Hella, stepping free of Adelaide's reach, voice like iron, “Don't. Touch. My. Friends.”

And then there's Hadrian coming towards them, Lem chirping at his side, still soaking wet and clutching a violin. Hadrian's shirt is bloody but the absolute fool is beaming—must've been one hell of a religious experience—and sheepishly starts explaining something about how this is his God and he would like to meet them, please, and there'll be food and how he hopes there's no trouble and—Adaire's eyes are on Hella. 

Even now in light o the candles, her face is tight and tired, and Adaire wishes fiercely that she could yell at her to cut it out, that Hella would look more like Hella. All of this, she thinks, repeating it, is too dangerous. There is too much, too much to lose here. Too little she can do. But the compulsion to push back Hella's hair is still there. 

Hadrian, she knows, has stopped watching her, and is making eyes at his god, probably pleased with his work. Adaire shudders, exhales, and pulls herself up straighter. “Hella.”

Damn, but if Church-boy's wrong about this, she's going to spit in all of his drinks. 

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” 

“Sure, hey, yeah. What's up?” “Uh-” Adaire looks around. “Not here. Let's just. Go step out, to our rooms. Talk there?” 

“Oh, okay? Sure.”

Hella's chair scratches loudly against the floor. She gives a wave and an awkward half-shrug to the rest of the table, before throwing a questioning glance at Adaire. 

Adaire turns without a word and begins to lead her out into the hallway. On the carpet, Hella's footprints suddenly sound much softer. The shift leaves her agitated again, flows through her arms down into the tips of her fingers, which clench on one of her rapiers. 

It is that same old anxiety that comes with any situation about to turn. Hella, she notices, is walking on the balls of her feet behind her. It is enough to make her grin, almost. 

Instead, she slows her step. Hella's hands, curled lightly by her sides, trigger a sense-memory of learning how to pickpocket; she reaches out, curls her hand carefully, oh-so-carefully around Hella's. Her hands are warm and calloused, and she grips back just as carefully. They are stopped in front of Hella's door, now, hallway on all sides. Their eyes are locked.  
Hella is fidgeting.

“Hella,” Adaire says. Her voice is clear. Hella smiles with her lips. “What?”

“I have a...proposition.” 

Ugh, no. Nonono. Is that—that's not right, right?  
Hella blinks at her. “Oh-ohkay?”

Adaire can feel her face scrunching up faster than she can dispel it. She quickly averts her face down to look at Hella's hand in hers. Her grip tightens in response. “Hm?” 

She looks up again then and it is like the room has been transformed into one of great profundity and importance, and there's a throne in the middle. Hella has grey hair and crow's feet and is holding her sword again but it is almost like an afterthought. Her entire face is concerned. She is looking at Adaire. 

The vision gives her enough confidence to open her mouth once more. She says: “Hella, we are in your sword. And, do you know why I'm here?” 

And Hella says: “Because you've got to be. Right? Because this..is what you're good at.” At her words, Adaire feels another wave of that strange helplessness pass through her. But she's got this. She can do this. So: “Hi, Hella. I'm Adaire. I lack a true connection.” Finally, Hella's eyes start to brighten in understanding. She allows herself a small smile. “What's your lack?”

But Hella still looks lost for words, so she shifts her grip, takes another breath, and she keeps going: “I heard,” pause, smile, “you know a thing or two about that.” 

Hella's face in response is a sight to behold. Her eyes are wide. There's a red glow on her cheeks, from the torches or a blush, who can say, and her throat is moving wordlessly. For a moment, she opens her mouth as if to say something, then pulls her hand away and closes her eyes as if against tears. “Adaire—

“I don't know if I can help you with that. I-Everything has been so messed up lately, and I,” she laughs wetly, “the only thing I am good at is killing people; and a lot of the people I killed are in this sword, like, they just live in here? And everyone outside thinks they're dead, but they're not really? And some people I just, I just killed them. With my hands, Adaire, I killed them with my bare. Hands, and I—all the people I've killed are always with me! I mean,” and her voice is low and tired, “You saw Adelaide.”

Adaire nods.

All of this is distinctly over her paygrade, but—god. She feels so old and so far removed from this life Hella lives, and it is the easiest thing in the world to sink down onto the floor with her. Hella's hands are only barely touching the seam of her skirt.

She shuffles closer; she takes one of Hella's hands in hers and pulls it towards herself to press a kiss against a knuckle. Hella is breathing quietly. Her head stays down. Adaire tries to think, quickly, to process this, and there's her name. And Saul Cider-Brew, Mother Glory. Blake.   
Clear as a blade, the look in Hella's eyes when Hadrian had her sword on the boat, the look in his, how he would not meet her eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion hanging over both of them. Abruptly, her own exhaustion shifts into a desperate, helpless anger that dizzies her, then fades. Hella's head slumps against her shoulder.

“Stability,” she mutters into the fabric of Adaire's dress. “I lack stability. Or just a good night's sleep.” And slouches further down. 

And that is enough to feel like something she understands, then, because even if Hadrian doesn't believe so, she knows this: There is never a shortage of connections in the world, true or otherwise. It helps more than she'd expected. 

Hella's hair is still crowned with blood and splatter. Adaire lets go of her hand. She winds her arms around her waist, loosely, and pushes up. Hella raises herself up unto her knees, and waits. They watch each other. 

“Hey, Hella?” “Hm?” “I don't want you to leave.” 

Her brown eyes search Adaire's face, and for a second, she feels awfully wrong-footed, but Hella just sighs, a long, relieved sound, and says: “Good.” 

They embrace. 

For another long moment, they remain in that private stillness. Then Hella shifts, says, “Come on,” and stands up. She has her hands extended towards Adaire, who is still sitting on the floor, skirt and two rapiers in a mess around her. 

The question must show on her face, because Hella gives a short laugh. She says it again, “Come on. I need a good night's sleep, and you can keep me company. Adaire. Come on up.”

Adaire wordlessly gathers herself while Hella watches, leaning against the wall by her door. Her arms are crossed. Adaire huffs. 

“Hey, Adaire?” She raises her eyes from her skirts to look at her. “Hm?”   
Another moment of silence. Then:  
“If you need to leave—if, if you think you need to leave, then,” she glances to the side, then back at Adaire, “Please. Tell me? Or, tell Hadrian, if you prefer that, and.” Adaire hopes her disbelief shows on her face, and it must, because Hella laughs. 

“I just. You can stay if you want, of course you can stay. I would—I would like that. It's been good having you around. Really good.” And she smiles.

What if I left anyway, thinks Adaire through the burst of tenderness, what if I left now, now, there's the hallway, here's the door, but she does not say that. Hella is alive and in front of her, smiling. She watches as Hella turns around and puts a hand on the doorknob, then swings back to look at her again. “And Adaire? Thanks.” 

And Hella takes a step away from the door, places a large hand on Adaire's jaw, and bends down to lay a kiss against her lips. And oh, oh. It is like Adaire's entire body takes flight. Her eyes slip closed. Hella draws away to arm's length. She is still moving her thumb over Adaire's skin. Adaire blinks back into awareness.

One of her hands is clenched in Hella's reddish tunic just above her chainmail's collar, the other pressed against her side. Swallowing once, Adaire slowly starts to trace her index finger over Hella's throat, pushing up on her toes to draw an even line. Hella's eyes close in a slow blink. Her finger follows the tremor up, from the end of the scar to the tip of her chin. She watches Hella's breaths turn shallow as her thumb lingers, and there is a moment, then, that the air seems to freeze around them. For a split second, neither of them breathe. 

Then Hella shifts, Adaire coughs, and Hella raises herself up, just a little. Adaire sinks down to where her feet are flat on the ground again. Her hand hangs suspended in the air between them, until Hella chances a glance at Adaire and bows her head so that it grazes her cheek. She is smiling, still: A small, secret thing. Adaire pulls her hand back, and watches Hella pull herself together enough to whisper another “come on” against her hair on her way to the door. 

In retreat, she looks stronger. Her back, silhouetted against the bright light of the room, takes the shape of the sharp bow of an Ordennan ship.


End file.
